


The Food of Love

by coraxes



Series: Trying Their Best [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Pre-Trespasser, post-Inquisition, shitty poetry, velaril lavellan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:09:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coraxes/pseuds/coraxes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Velaril discovers Cassandra has been writing poetry about her, and makes a deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Food of Love

Vel always slept easier in Cassandra’s bed than her own.  Her chambers up in the tower were too large, too isolated; she’d grown up sleeping on a bedroll surrounded by her clanmates and with the sounds of the forest lulling her to sleep.  Even when Cassandra’s bed didn’t have her in it, it smelled like her, leather and metal and soap. 

 

When Cassandra rolled out of bed it half-woke Vel.  She kept her eyes closed for a moment, rolling onto her back, and then sleepily watched Cassandra cross the room to her desk and light a candle.  Cassandra was always an early riser, but usually she rose at dawn, not...whatever time this was, Vel thought.  She couldn’t see any sunlight through the window.  Surely whatever reports there were could wait until daytime.

 

Cassandra stared at the paper for a long moment, her lips pursed.  The candlelight made strange shadows on the hollows under her cheekbones.  She muttered something that Vel had to strain to hear.  “Long of…limb?  Long of ear?  No, that’s just offensive…”

 

What in Thedas was she _talking_ about?  Vel rolled onto her side so one of her ears was closer, trying to maintain the illusion of sleep.  Whatever this was, Cassandra wouldn’t have risen in the middle of the night to do it if she wanted to tell Vel about it. 

 

Cassandra looked up at the movement, startled, then relaxed and turned back to the paper.  She frowned and scratched a few words.  Her tongue was sticking out, Vel noticed; she had to turn into the pillow to hide her smile.  Fearsome warrior, indeed.

 

Whatever Cassandra was doing, she could ask her about it in the morning.  Settling into the warm space Cassandra had left, she went back to sleep.

 

When Vel’s eyes next opened, weak sunlight streamed through the window, and Cassandra was curled around her like she’d never left.  Cassandra kissed the top of Vel’s head where it rested against her collarbone.  “Good morning.” Her Nevarran accent was much stronger when she was sleepy; it had taken Vel a while to learn to decipher it.

 

“Morning,” Vel said, and kissed the scratchy fabric of Cassandra’s tunic, too lazy to move any further.  She loved mornings like this, when Cassandra actually stayed in bed to greet her instead of rising to do her exercises.  She yawned hugely, then asked, “Were you writing something last night?”

 

Cassandra tensed.  “You saw that?”

 

“You woke me when you got out of bed.  What were you writing?”

 

“Nothing important,” Cassandra said brusquely.

 

Vel knew a conversation-ender when she heard one, but was too curious to take the hint.  “It _looked_ pretty important.”

 

“It’s…something personal,” said Cassandra. 

 

Vel chuckled.  “Something I should worry about, Cassandra?  Are you writing poems for your secret lover?”

 

She _definitely_ didn’t imagine the small hitch of breath, nor the way Cassandra went completely still.  The Seeker of Truth had never been able to lie convincingly.  Vel scooted up so she could actually see Cassandra.  “Creators.  You’re actually writing poems?  That was just a guess.”  She wasn’t worried about the _secret lover_ bit.  Cassandra wasn’t capable of such a thing.

 

Cassandra’s cheeks were pink.  She licked her lips.  “I…yes.  But you can’t see them.”

 

Vel had cared for children with more subtlety.  “They’re about me, aren’t they.”  The “long of ear” bit made more sense now.  She certainly wasn’t long of limb. 

 

As if praying for the Maker to descend and save her, Cassandra stared at the ceiling.  She was red from the tips of her ears to where her skin disappeared under her nightshirt; Vel knew from experience that Cassandra was a full-body blusher.  “Perhaps.”

 

Vel knew she was blushing, as well, but her dark skin and vallaslin helped to hide it.  She kissed Cassandra’s cheek.  “That is _adorable,_ Cassandra.  I didn’t know you wrote poetry—how long has this been going on?”

 

“Since, ah.  Since you said you would court me.”  Cassandra scowled suddenly.  Usually Cassandra scowling was a fearsome thing, but here—with her hair rumpled from sleep, thin braid over her shoulder, creases on her cheeks from where she had lain on the pillow—it was only adorable.  “But they’re horrible; you _can’t_ read them.”

 

“You’ve had a year to practice, so they can’t be _that_ horrible,” Vel said.  She was curious; Cassandra had never kept something from her before.  That she’d gone a year without telling Vel about the poetry was surprising.

 

Not that Vel could talk, there, but she’d always been better at keeping secrets than Cassandra. 

 

“They _are_ ,” Cassandra said.  “They’re _awful._ You know I struggle to find the right words simply writing reports; putting my feelings about _you_ to paper is nearly impossible.”

 

“Even so.”  Vel bit her lip.  She hadn’t wanted to tell Cassandra about this, but she _really_ did want to read those poems.  “I’ll make you a deal.  I get to read some of your love poems…and you get to read some of mine.”

 

Cassandra turned so sharply that their noses collided, startling them both into a laugh.  “You write poetry about me?” she asked, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

 

“ _Reams_ of it, since Haven.  I thought about giving you some, but it truly is horrible; I didn’t want to embarrass myself.”  Vel kissed her lightly on the mouth.  “Now we can be embarrassed together.”

 

Cassandra considered this.  “I…alright.  But we read it at the same time!  You get yours, I’ll get mine, and we can sit down and switch.”

 

Vel would rather have read Cassandra’s right away, but she understood why Cassandra asked; no one enjoyed having their work read right in front of them.  By switching, they could spare themselves some anxiety.  “Alright.  Grab a few of them and we’ll go to my quarters.”

 

They made themselves half-decent before leaving Cassandra’s quarters; Vel grabbed one of the changes of clothes that she kept in Cassandra’s wardrobe, and Cassandra pulled on a clean tunic and boots and pinned her braid-crown in place.  While Vel was washing her face and finger-combing her hair, Cassandra rifled through a stack of paper in her desk drawer, pulled out a few sheets, and carefully tucked them into her pocket. 

 

At this hour, just after dawn, few people were about.  They saw only a few guards and servants as they made their way through the courtyard to Vel’s quarters.  Cassandra seemed to be in a hurry to get this over with.  Her long strides forced Vel to half-run to keep up. 

 

Once they reached Vel’s quarters, Cassandra settled stiffly on a chair in front of Vel’s desk.  There was poetry in the desk, half-finished stanzas scattered in the drawers, but the ones Vel had in mind were hidden under the bed, so that was where she went.  It wasn’t the best hiding place, but she liked to keep her finished poetry there rather than in the desk; it made her feel better.  Cassandra raised an eyebrow when Vel marched in front of her, poetry in hand, but said nothing.

 

Vel’s heart was beating uncommonly fast when she settled in the chair opposite Cassandra and crossed her legs.  “Alright, Seeker,” she said, holding out the papers.  Nerves, she knew.  These were intensely personal poems, after all, as well as intensely…awful.  “Let’s switch.”

 

Cassandra handed her own poetry over, then snatched Vel’s as though she was afraid Vel would take it back. 

 

Trying not to watch Cassandra’s face for a reaction, Vel looked down at the first poem.

 

_My heart goes out into the field,_   
_Clutched in her hands like a staff_   
_‘Tis magic unlike any other…_

Vel tried very, very hard not to laugh.  It was sweet, it truly was, and it was also truly terrible.

 

Cassandra snorted with laughter and then clapped a hand over her mouth.  Vel blushed hotly and fought to keep her voice even.  “I thought you might enjoy that first one,” she said.  “I wrote it after Halamshiral.”

 

The first poem in the stack was one of her worst ones.  It went,

 

 _Her hair is as black as the night sky,_  
_Her eyes are rich brown as oak,_  
 _I’m thankful she’s mine,_  
 _She who served the Divine,_  
 _And helps me not to croak._

 

Cassandra stared at her—perhaps remembering, as Vel did, their quiet dance on the balcony after that mess of a night.  Then she looked down at the poem and burst into giggles.

 

If she’d accomplished nothing else today, Vel thought, grinning at the way the smile lit up Cassandra’s face—at least she’d made Cassandra laugh.  “Read the next one.  I promise it’s better.”

 

Cassandra nodded and turned the page.  Vel turned back to her own reading. 

 

 _She never walks—_  
_Only runs, or skips_  
 _Down stairs, two at a time,_  
 _Sliding down hills,_  
 _Laughing as she leaves us behind_

And the last one, on the third page:

 

 _On the battlements she stands,_  
_“You are a woman,” I say_  
 _And watch her crumble down_  
 _Only her smile remains_  
 _But later I will see it grow,_  
 _Her whisper in my ear,_  
 _Her words a playful promise,_  
 _“I’ll see what I can do.”_

When Vel looked up, Cassandra was watching her.  “I know it isn’t any good,” Cassandra said.  “I try to find the right words but they just don’t _fit,_ I know it’s only prose with line breaks—”

 

“Cassandra.  It’s _lovely,_ ” Vel told her firmly.  “The form, the words—I don’t care.  You wrote _poetry_ about me and it’s _adorable._ ”  Few people ever told Cassandra she was adorable.  She was two meters tall, covered in scars and muscle—but Vel told her she was adorable as often as she could.

 

“I…thank you.”  Cassandra gave her a small smile.  “And you, as well.  You really think my smile is…‘beautiful as the rising sun’?  And…”  She touched the long scar on her cheek. Cassandra wasn’t a vain woman, but Vel knew she felt self-conscious about her scars, sometimes.

 

“’Like a mosaic on temple walls,’” Vel confirmed.  It felt strange to be quoting herself; she blushed.

 

Cassandra traced her scar again, still smiling.  “Thank you for showing me,” she said, carefully placing the poetry on Vel’s desk, “and for not laughing.”  She leaned forward, elbows on her knees; it was easy for Vel to lean forward as well and kiss her.

 

“Any time.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from this quote from Pride and Prejudice:
> 
> "'I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love,' said Darcy.
> 
> 'Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.'"
> 
> Also: as you can probably tell, I know jack shit about poetry. Writing this was an exercise in "how bad can I make this and still put my name to it". Thank god both of these nerds suck, too. And Vel's poem is, of course, a Harry Potter reference.
> 
> Comments are very much appreciated!


End file.
